


as fate may have it

by Anonymous



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Eventual Fluff, Grubs (Homestuck), Human/Troll Hybrids, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Sibling Incest, Unplanned Pregnancy, Xeno, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-04 07:22:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14015154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: the worst smut you'll ever read, by farnow with extra angst





	1. Chapter 1

====> Dirk: Wake up.

When you wake up, it feels like you're boiling alive.

So, you shuck your blankets, and, after a second thought, everything but a tank top and boxers. The A/C seems to be working fine, so you set it a couple degrees lower and wait.

It doesn't fucking work. You're still so hot that you'd like to crawl out of your skin, even with every fan you have blasting. You press the back of your hand to your forehead, and yeah, you've got a fever. Fuck.

You settle for trying to distract yourself by scrolling through your favorite forums from Earth A. It works, but whatever weird virus you have seems to be getting worse. You can feel your pulse pounding in the tips of your fingers, and the pit of your stomach is cramping, hard.

The cramps subside, but they replace themselves with a strange, hollow ache. Hmm.

You log into Trollichum and work your way over to the medical forum. It's massive, but it comprises the entirety of the medical knowledge you have about your brand new, troll-human-cherub-hybrid species.

You press CTRL-F, then type your symptoms in and hit enter. You get a surprising number of results, and they all seem to be the same thing. You really, really don't like what you see.

The cherub DNA that went into the mix fucked up your reproductive system, big time. Now, everyone has a 'second gender' of sorts, and it's completely random who is what. You were fine with it before, of course, you hadn't presented yet, but now that you're staring at a screen full of 'symptoms of heat' and 'omega presentation', you're beginning to have your doubts.

Your scrolling doesn't yield a viable alternative to what you really hope isn't happening, and it's getting harder to focus. The hollow ache in your abdomen has morphed into a desperate, empty hunger, and you can feel your nook leaking when you shift your legs.

Finally, finally, you come across something useful. It's an anonymously posted guide to dealing with heat cycles, complete with grey text and no discernible quirk. You click it, and the first, most important item on the list is 'take a cold shower.' Perfect. You can do that.

Your shared bathroom is, thankfully, free of your roommate, so you strip and set the water to as cold as it can go. It solves the heat part of the issue, but your nook's still throbbing and you're still having to resist the urge to shove your fingers up there to make it quiet. Fuck. You need to distract yourself.

Your curl your hands into fists, digging your nails into your palms hard enough to draw blood, and stare at the door that leads into Hal's room. Out of the many things you didn't expect out of the end of the game, your snooty electronic companion being given a fully organic body was a surprising one. Sadly, you still have to live with him.

A wave of pure, unmitigated lust washes through you, and you have to bite down hard on your bottom lip to keep yourself from making a truly shameful noise. Fuck. This is only going to get worse, isn't it?

You're too distracted to notice Hal yelling "Hey Dirk, coming in!" but you do notice the door handle turn.

Fuck.

Hal strides in, naked from the waist up, and grabs his toothbrush from the counter.

_Fuck._

He tenses, and you know he just caught a whiff of whatever pheromones you're giving off. There's no way he doesn't know you're in heat.

**_ Fuck. _ **

Then, you smell something. Pheromones, yes, but the opposite of what you're giving off. The thick, _delicious_ tang of an alpha wafts through the air.

You do manage to cross your legs, hiding the torrential gush of bronze from your aching nook. You do not, however, manage to stifle the low, desperate whine that comes with it.

Hal turns to face you, eyes wide. You need to say something, to tell him to go away, that this isn't what it looks like. Instead, you gasp out a short, shaky "Fuck."

He steps towards you, and the scent of an alpha grows stronger. Fuck. It's him.

"Fuck, Hal," you pant, followed by a choked sob. You need this, you need this right now, you need it so fucking much, but the rational part of your mind hasn't stopped screaming yet.

His arms are around you, and he's saying something you can't discern into your ear. "Please," you sob into his shoulder, the little dignity you have left vanishing in a cloud of smoke, as he steps into the shower with you.

You grind against him, desperate to satisfy your needy nook, to get him to stuff you with his bulge, with his knot. He groans, softly, as your legs give way and you sink to the bottom of the tub, dragging him with you. A moment later, you find out why, as the tip of his bulge finds the folds of your nook. Fuck.

He goes slowly, much too slow for the ache of your cycle, so you wrap your legs around his waist and yank your bodies together. It's good, but then the <i>rest</i> of his bulge unsheathes into you, and you howl.

He gives you a minute to adjust, but by the end of it you're already rutting against him as forcefully as your shaky muscles will allow. When he starts moving, you feel like you're about to explode. How the fuck did no one ever tell you that sex feels this good?

There are _ridges_ on the underside of his bulge, holy fuck. You can feel them slide against that one spot at the back of your nook with each thrust, and every time, a new wave of pleasure courses through your veins.

Some rational bit of your mind is aware that you're making noise as he fucks you, and that it's loud. The rest of your brain is too blissed out on hormones and endorphins to care what you sound like, as you moan, chirrup, and trill shamelessly.

Hal's making noise too, panting and groaning, and his breathing is ragged and sharp. You can tell that he's close, both by that and the slight swell at the base of his bulge, and you know you're getting close too. So, you do the one thing that pops into your brain; you let out a mating trill.

This noise is nothing like the ones you made earlier. A mating trill means that he's important to you, that you care about him enough to want to be his mate. His partner. His omega. It's brazen and foolish of you, but he croons back, a noise that means 'yes, you're mine.'

The pleasure centers in the back of your brain light up, telegraphing signals of _you done good_ throughout your body. You've found an alpha who's willing to be your mate. Now, it's time to seal the deal.

His knot slides in smoothly, but slowly, and you kick your legs at his back to tell him to go faster. He does, and there's a slight pop as it slides all the way in. You keen, and that's what sets him off, his teeth buried in your shoulder as he comes. You feel his bulge pulse, and that's what sends you over the edge.

====> Dirk:  Cuddle.

You come to as Hal picks you up and lifts you out of the tub. Your mind's still loopy with heat, so you can't really do anything except cling to him and wonder when the fuck he got strong enough to pick you up. He sets you down into something surprisingly plush, and it takes you a second to realize that it's his bed before he's climbing in with you and wrapping his arms around you.

You tuck your chin into the gap between his neck and his shoulder, wrap your arms around his waist, and relax into him. You're delirious and exhausted, and curling up in your alpha's arms as you drift off to sleep sounds perfect to you.

====> Dirk: Be awoken.

When you wake up again, it's to the sound of yelling. Your bro's on the phone with someone, and their argument is loud enough that you can hear it through the wall separating Hal's room from the living room. Their shouting is unintelligible at first, but then you realize they're talking about you.

"I don't know where the fuck he went!" your bro shouts. "His room's empty, and it stinks of an omega in heat!" Then, "You think it could be him?" followed by "Hell no, there's no way Dirk's an omega," followed by "Hang on, lemme ask Hal." He pokes his head into Hal's room, where Hal himself is still coiled protectively around you.

He looks at Hal. Then, he looks at you. Then, he looks at Hal again. "Fuck," he hisses. "Jesus fucking Christ." He abruptly turns on his heel, slams Hal's door shut, and stomps out of the apartment, taking his phone conversation out of earshot

You look at Hal. Hal looks at you.

"I- I don't wanna talk about it right now," you whisper. "Just hold me, okay?"

He nods and squeezes you tight.

====> Dirk: Nod off.

You aren't sure when you fell back asleep, but you know for sure when you wake up again. Hal's snoring into your ear, dead to the world, and the clock on his nightstand tells you that it's late afternoon. You can hear your bro and someone else just outside your door, talking in hushed tones. And you, well, you can feel the pulsing heat indicative of your cycle pounding in between your legs, but you're trying to ignore it.

Your efforts turn out to be pretty futile because you're still pressed against Hal, and he's still leaking alpha pheromones. Fuck. Leave it to the two of you to present as opposite dynamics on the very same day.

There's a knock on Hal's door. _Shit._ It opens, and in walks the Dolorosa, the singular authority on reproductive health in the new universe, followed by your bro. Hal stirs. "What's going on?" he yawns.

"As per protocol," she says, decisive and businesslike as ever, "I am required to affirm both of your presentations. Since the equipment required to do so is in the medical center, both of you have five minutes to get dressed and meet me outside."

She and your bro leave, allowing you and Hal a modicum of modesty. You disentangle yourself from him (difficult), get up (not so difficult), ignore the angry pulse of your needy nook and the tangy spice of his pheromones (extremely difficult), and pull on jeans and a t-shirt.

As you do, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror. You're a mess, hair wild, shades discarded, and neck covered in hickies. In addition, you reek of omega pheromones. Anyone who sees you, with or without Hal, will know immediately what happened.

Speaking of Hal, you catch him pulling a shirt on when you walk back to his room. His shades are missing as well, and his back looks like a well-used scratching post. Whoops.

You stop to speak to him, to say 'well, we're fucked,' or 'this is your fucking fault,' or maybe even begrudge him a 'sorry for putting you in this situation, bro,' but before you can, he catches your lips with his fangs, then scrapes your neck with his teeth.

Fuck. You go limp in his arms, and a soft whine escapes your lips before you can stop it. While your head spins, he turns, and leaves you there, shaking with lust and heat and need and _fuck me now, oh god please._

It takes you a second to catch your breath and get yourself under control before you leave his room, cursing him, cursing yourself, cursing your traitorous body, because even the chafe of your material-soaked boxers against your nook is somehow arousing. At least these jeans are black.

Your bro gives you a sad, disdainful look as you walk past him to meet Hal and the Dolorosa. Dave, who's sprawled haphazardly on the couch, opts instead for a lecherous wolf-whistle and a thumbs up.

The walk from your apartment to the med center may be the most mortifying thing you've ever done, and it doesn't help that Hal's grinning like the Cheshire fucking Cat the entire time. Sure, there's no one outside to see you except for a couple of the Beforus ancestors, but still.

Then, you make it to the clinic, and Roxy and Jane perk their heads up at you when you enter, and you want to curl up into a tiny ball and die. Roxy grins. "Aww yeah, look who got the dick he deserves!" she calls, and you feel a little less mortified.

Hal sits down next to Jane, and, apprehensively, you do too. From what you can smell, both she and Roxy presented at the same time you and Hal did. Roxy, who reeks of alpha pheromones, takes a sniff of your neck and hums.

Jane, who smells of pheromones slightly less potent than yours, but no less omega, smiles sadly at you. Hal looks predatorily at her, and an awful jealous feeling surges through you. It makes you feel horrible, that this overbearing, know-it-all bastard is your alpha, and that he's going to be until you finish your heat.

From one of the back rooms, Jake walks in, and does a double take when he sees you and Hal. You catch a whiff of his pheromones, bland and unappealing. If you'd had to guess which one of you would be a beta, never in a million years would you have said him.

Roxy gets called back to the room that Jake just left, and with the only other alpha in the vicinity gone, Hal's pheromones get stronger and more potent. He smells like sea salt and warm, sunny days, with the slightest undertone of ozone. Overall, it's delicious, and without Roxy, it's affecting you more than you'd like to admit.

You shift uncomfortably, and catch a glimpse of Jane, who looks like she's even more uncomfortable. Hal, ever the reprehensible motherfucker, wraps an arm around your waist and grabs a handful of your ass. Normally, you would smack him, hard, but nothing is normal right now, and his hand stays.

Finally, Roxy returns, and her pheromones overpower Hal's. Hal, however, doesn't relinquish his handful of ass. You shift away from him, trying to get your point across. He leans closer to you, but before he can do anything worse, you get called into the back room.

====> Dirk: Get examined.

The Dolorosa may be a paragon of health and safety, but you don't feel very safe right now, what with her gloved fingers up your nook and all. She retracts them, and you sigh, relieved, and then she pulls out an ultrasound wand. Fuck.

====> Dirk: Present officially.

You're an omega. Not a low beta, but a full omega, complete with the reproductive organs and hormones to match. Of course, you knew that already. There's one big difference between betas low enough to go into heat and omegas: true omegas have neither bulges nor shame globes. You knew when you fucked Hal in the shower, and you found that you had nothing to unsheathe.

In order to accurately assess your genitalia, you had to be given a hormone suppressant. Your cycle is on hold for the next three hours, and dear lord, you hate yourself. Not only are you a full omega, but you fucked _Hal_ , for god's sake.

Roxy, who's pheromones have gotten considerably weaker since the suppressant she's been given has kicked in, is petting your hair as you put your head on the table and stew in self-loathing. Hal's currently in the exam room, so you don't have to worry about him.

====> Dirk: Mope.

Hal, who'd also been given a suppressant, actually apologized to you when you got back to your apartment, but it doesn't matter. You've got an hour and a half before your suppressant wears off, and it isn't safe for you to take another one until your cycle ends, and you know you'll end up fucking someone.

The reduction of inhibitions that led you to fucking Hal in the first place are supposedly just the beginning. In the next five days to seven days of your cycle, you're going to lose all inhibitions and self-awareness, according to the informational goddamn packet on omegas you've been given.

Additionally, because you fucked Hal during your cycle and his rut, without protection, there's an almost 90% chance that you would've been pregnant if Porrim hadn't been sympathetic to your misery and snuck you a plan-b pill while the Dolorosa was focused on Hal. Thank baby Jesus and all his holy fucking angels for that. You don't have a clue what you would've done with a fucking grub.

Now that you've officially presented, however, you've been given enough condoms to last the rest of your cycle, and the one after that. God. The only thing worse than having to do this now is having to do it every six months for the rest of your life. You've had to mark today on your fucking calendar, just so you have some warning.

====> Dirk: Vomit.

You'd been warned that the plan-b would cause nausea, perhaps even vomiting, but that by then, it would have already done its job. Now that you've thrown up, you feel a lot better. Hal, however, who was brushing his teeth when you came running in here to puke, doesn't look so okay.

"Dirk?" he asks. "Does this mean that you're-you're having a grub?"

"No," you say. "First of all, it's much too early for that. Secondly, I threw up because I took a plan-b pill."

"So we don't know?" he asks. "I mean, it's 90%, so we don't-"

"Hal," you interrupt. "Do you know what a plan-b pill is?"

"No," he says. "Why?"

"The fact that I threw up means that it did its job," you say. "It means that I was pregnant, but I'm not anymore."

His shoulders slump, and he exhales in relief.

====> Dirk: Try to be responsible.

Your suppressants wore off completely an hour ago, and you're pretty sure Hal's did too. You can smell his pheromones, and it's intoxicating, like the smell of your favorite meal while you're starving, like the sound of running water when you're horribly parched, like the sight of a warm, soft, safe bed when you're exhausted.

Right now, you're trying to distract yourself, your tablet pen in your hand, music in your ears, and a half-finished sketch on your screen. You're trying, and it's not working. You don't even remember what you were trying to draw.

You don't trust yourself to message any of your friends, because, as luck would have it, your entire session presented at the same time, and they're all just as hormone-addled as you are right now. You know there's a good chance you'll agree to something stupid if you do.

Instead, you return to your drawing. It's just a sketch right now, the base lines of a masculine body, and because you're in heat and you can't control yourself all that well, it's a naked alpha. <i>Your alpha</i>, the little gremlin of your intrusive thoughts whispers. And because you're completely loopy with hormones and pheromones, you think that's a great idea.

Normally, you wouldn't dare think of drawing anyone you know in real life without their explicit permission, but right now, all of your inhibitions are out the window. You draw for about three hours, avoiding doing anything really stupid, and being very responsible, considering the circumstances. You end up with a beautiful lined painting of Hal, completely naked and sporting a malevolent, proud grin while toying with his beautiful, dark red bulge with one hand.

====> Dirk: Make a very, very stupid decision.

You wonder what Hal himself would think of this. Since he's no longer a computer program, he'd have to hack your desktop to see it. Or, you could send it to him. He's got his own laptop, and his own Trollichum account.

You save the image again, this time as a .png, log in to your Trollichum, and double click his handle. He's not online to respond to you right now, but you send the image anyway.

====> Dirk: Wait.

You fuck around on your computer for a while, playing some of the flash games Roxy made. The thrumming emptiness in the pit of your stomach continues to distract you, so you keep dying, and your mind, drunk on hormones and pheromones and liquid lust, keeps flashing back to earlier today, on the floor of the shower with Hal.

You need something else to distract yourself, so you help yourself to a cup noodle. The kitchen windows show that it's night outside. Huh. You don't have a clue what time it is. Day and night have sort of blurred together, another side effect of your cycle. You return to your room and wolf down your shitty instant ramen instead of focusing on that too much.

While you ate, Hal opened your message, but didn't reply. Fuck. In a rare moment of clarity, you realize what a big mistake you made sending that image to him. _Fuck._ You hate yourself, but even more, you hate your fucking heat cycle for letting you make such awful decisions.

The door connecting your room to your and Hal's shared bathroom opens, and Hal himself walks in. His pheromones have somehow gotten stronger since you saw him last, and it takes a great amount of effort to keep yourself from jumping him right then and there.

"Sweet drawing," he says. "But something makes me think you'd like the real thing better."

This time, you actually do throw yourself at him.

====> Dirk: Do what your rational self swore you wouldn't do.

You fuck Hal, again.

You fuck Hal, then you sleep for a little while, then you fuck again, then you eat some food your bro brought by, and you fuck for a third time.

It becomes a rhythm: fuck, eat, sleep, and fuck again. You don't know how long it takes before it all starts to blur together, into a haze of satisfaction and pleasure. Sometimes it's hard and fast, sometimes sweet and slow, sometimes in between.

====> Dirk: Wake up, again.

You sit up, and- fuck, you're sore all over. Everything hurts. What the hell did you do?

Beside you, Hal snores, and everything comes flooding back to you. Your heat, his rut, everyone presenting at the same time. Holy fuck. You fucked Hal. Hal fucked you, for fuck's sake.

Judging by the fact that your nook feels abused instead of aroused, you're going to guess that your heat is over. Fucking finally. You retrieve your phone from your bedside table, and check to see what day it is. It's Thursday, six days since you presented on Friday. Yep, your heat's done, and Hal's rut should finish sometime soon if it hasn't already.

You shift, deciding to get out of bed and take a shower and wash off six days of grime, and- fuck, your sheets are ruined. Your mattress cover probably saved it and your box spring, but your sheets are coated in splotches of bronze and burgundy genetic material. It's mostly bronze, thank fuck, because most of the burgundy is contained in the pile of used condoms in the trash can by your bed.

Fuck it, you'll deal with that later. You don't want to go through the process of waking Hal up and getting him out of your bed. Instead, you take a long shower, and reflect on the sheer number of bruises, bites, and scratches you've got. Seriously, you're going to be feeling these for at least a week.

Once you're clean, dry, and clothed, you leave your room in search of something to eat and drink. Your bro walks into the kitchen while you're pouring yourself a bowl of cereal and stops. "Heat's over," you explain, in as few words as possible.

"It's not you I'm worried about," he says. "Dave and Dove presented while you and Hal were busy fucking each other’s' brains out, and you still stink of omega."

You turn to face him and raise an eyebrow.

"Dave's an alpha, Dove's a beta," he explains. "And they've got a good three days left before they're back to normal- well, relatively normal."

You nod. Behind you, your shower starts up, indicating that Hal is awake and lucid enough to want to get himself clean. Once you've eaten enough that you won't pass out later, you drop the bowl in the sink and go to change (and maybe burn) your ruined sheets.

Your room reeks. Seriously, you don't know how you didn't notice it earlier. Hal's pheromones are there, tangy and tempting, but intermingled with the off-putting sweetness of yours. You throw all of your windows open and set every single fan you own on high, but your room's still not going to be habitable for a few hours.

Instead, of going to confront Hal, you curl up on the couch and play some of Dave's shitty video games. Dove walks by, reeking of unappealingly bland beta pheromones, and scoffs at you and your little blanket pile. You flip him the bird, and he moves on. Dave is nowhere to be seen, but there are alpha pheromones that aren't Hal's or your bro's wafting from the direction of his room.

The entire apartment may stink of pheromones, and Dave probably won't leave his room for the next week, but everything's fine, for now. The future looks rough, but you'll live.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i didn't like the way the story was going, so i made some plot changes  
> now with 3x more angst

====> Dirk: Wake up.

You've been up for about three hours, actually.

Right now, you're playing some of the shitty flash games that Roxy loves to make and listening to Hal clatter around in the living room. After last month's catastrophe of everyone presenting at the same time, everything's (almost) returned to normal. Sure, you still don't feel entirely like yourself, but you'll manage.

Your Trollichum pings, so you switch tabs to check it. It's another 'medical update memo', this time geared towards everyone that's presented since you've arrived in the new universe. It's mostly bureaucratic bullshit, but-

_Oh, fuck._

====> Dirk: Freak out.

Freak out? No, you're fine.

So what, if the condoms the med center's been handing out were quote-unquote 'sabotaged'? The ones you used during your heat last month were fine.

That little bit of burgundy you found on the sheets you had to burn probably didn't mean anything.

Probably.

You should take a pregnancy test, just to be sure. That way, when it comes out negative, you'll have nothing to worry about.

====> Dirk: Freak out, for real this time.

Positive.

You've taken four of the shitty pregnancy tests the med center hands out, and every single fucking one of them is positive.

You're sitting on the bathroom floor, trying desperately to get your breathing under control. It isn't working. You're hyperventilating, you think. Fuck.

What the fuck are you going to do with a grub? You don't know. Your conversation with Dave on the roof at the end of the game comes to mind. How shitty and abusive of a parent your pre-scratch self had been. How he'd basically fucked Dave, and Dove, by extension, up for life. _Fuck._

====> Hal: What the hell is up with Dirk?

You'd heard him clattering around in your shared bathroom a few minutes ago, and now you can hear him hyperventilating and thumping his head against the wall. He's freaking out about something, obviously.

The sound of gagging, followed by retching, echoes through the wall. Either he's worked himself up enough to vomit (unlikely), or he's sick and freaking out because he thinks he's going to die (more likely). You'll leave him alone for now, in the case that it's the latter. Since the end of the game granted you with a physical body (awesome), you've gotten sick once (awful), and you never want to repeat it.

====> Dirk: Resume freak out.

You're still freaking out, and you don't think you're ever going to stop. You've moved back into your room, taking the positive tests with you on the off chance that Hal uses the bathroom anytime soon, but you haven't stopped hyperventilating. You're shaking, too, curled up in the tiny space between your bed and the wall.

You choke back a sob. Fuck. What the hell are you going to do? How the hell are you going to tell anyone? How the hell are you going to tell _Hal_?

There's one old trick that's never failed to calm you down when you're freaking out: take a long, hot shower, and seriously consider the problem. It usually yields a decent solution.

Right now, a solution seems like a very good idea.

====> Dirk: Fail to find a solution.

You fail to come up with a decent, or even manageable solution to your problem. You do, however, manage to find a dozen other problems.

Firstly, how the fuck are you going to tell anyone? It's not like you can just come out and say it, that'd be absolutely mortifying. You can't simply hint at it either, you'd end up snapping and blurting it out. You could keep it secret, if it weren't something that'll kick you in the ass if you do.

Secondly, what the hell are you going to do with a grub? A fully sentient, autonomous child that you're responsible for raising? How do you keep from fucking this up immensely, like your pre-scratch self did? You don't know.

How are you going to keep the outside world from fucking this up for you? Aside from the current drama, your tiny community is in some political shambles. Most of the adult trolls (Alternian, at least) keep disappearing and reappearing months later, your families are a mess, and the last attempted murder was three weeks ago, for fuck's sake.

You don't know what the fuck you're going to do, aside from trying to be responsible and hoping for the best. That might be all you can do.

====> Dirk: Calm down.

It takes three solid hours and all of the hot water your apartment has to offer, but you do calm down eventually.

You made it through fifteen years in a post-apocalypse hellscape. You made it through Sburb, and all the trials therein. You made it through your arrival in the new universe. You made it through being reincarnated as a fucking human/troll/cherub hybrid, for fuck's sake.

You'll make it through this just fine.

====> Hal: Confront Dirk.

After three hours and forty-seven fucking minutes, you hear the shower shut off. Finally.

You're not stupid. After you'd heard him freak the fuck out, your shitty laptop finally picked up the latest Trollichum memo (you used to BE a computer, you're allowed to hate yours), and you picked up on what he was freaking out about.

So, you barge into the bathroom, fully prepared to ask a very awkward question. Dirk looks up at you from where he's combing the water out of his hair.

"Did you read the Trollian memo?" you ask.

He nods. "Of course."

"Are you-?"

"No," he says.

You sigh in relief. Bullet fucking dodged.

====> Dirk: Freak out, again.

Hal leaves the bathroom, and you retreat into your bedroom as quickly as fucking possible. Fuck.

You lied to Hal. Told him no, you're not pregnant, you got lucky. And he believed you.

====> Alpha!Dave: Check on Dirk.

You received the Trollichum memo about sabotaged condoms, just like everyone else did. You yourself have nothing to worry about, except for the four teenagers you're responsible for. They're all part of the group that presented last month, and you know that Dirk, Hal, and Dave definitely should be worried.

You've already talked to Dave and his matesprit/moirail/boyfriend about it, and the answer is yes, you might get a grandchild out of this mess. Hal was completely oblivious to the whole thing, which means that you might need to break the news to Dirk as well. Figures.

Knocking on Dirk's door doesn't yield an answer, so you go ahead and open it. At first glance, he's missing, but then you hear a slight whimper from the side of his bed.

He's wedged himself between his bed and the wall, and is curled up in the fetal position, clearly mid-freak-out. You don't think he's registered your presence, even. He must be really upset.

Then, you spot the small pile of pregnancy tests on the bed next to him. Fuck. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that they're all positive, and they're the reason why he's flipping his shit.

====> Dirk: Calm down.

You have calmed down- well, sort of. You're still freaked the fuck out about your situation, and you're probably going to have another breakdown later.

Right now, however, you're calm(ish) and stable. You've been talked out of the space between your bed and the wall, and into the living room, where Dave and Hal already were.

Your bro's planning on dragging you to the med clinic, of course. He tries to get Hal to come along with you, but Hal refuses pretty adamantly. You don't care. As far as you're concerned, Hal can go die.

And yeah, you're pissed. You're pissed at your bro for telling everyone what was going on. You're pissed at whoever decided poking holes in the free fucking condoms was a good idea. You're pissed at yourself, for being stupid and impulsive and hormonal enough to get yourself into this situation in the first place.

You make it to the med center, to find a menagerie of people in various states of disarray already waiting. There are some of the trolls, alpha and beta sessions alike, who all seem to be either very nervous or very angry. That includes Karkat, who's banging his head against the table, and Kanaya, who's sitting next to Rose, grasping her hand tight.

Rose seems frazzled and upset, her hair mussed and face locked in a grimace. Jane, who's sitting nearby with Calliope, looks very similar. Calliope looks like she's trying to be positive but is clearly having a lot of trouble.

This wouldn't be fucking happening, you lament, if the game had spit you out as entirely human or entirely troll or entirely cherub. Or, in fact, any other species where it isn't massively likely, regardless of gender, to get stuck with a grub if your protection fails.

You take a seat next to Jane, who takes your hand and squeezes it reassuringly. It doesn't help. Right about now, you'd give almost anything to not be here, to not need to be here, to be anything but an omega. Jane squeezes your hand again.

====> Dirk: Get examined, again.

You are fucking tired of this.

First, they made you take another pregnancy test (positive, just like all the rest of them), then you get to sit in a bland exam room and loathe yourself for fifteen minutes. Fucking wonderful.

Finally, the Dolorosa herself, looking very harried and overworked, comes in to check on you. Out comes the ultrasound wand again. Thankfully, it doesn't go up your nook like it did when your presentation was being affirmed, but it does confirm what you really hoped it wouldn't.

There is, most definitely, a growing clump of cells in your reproductive organs, and in about five months, it'll be a healthy grub encased in a healthy egg. It's even got a heartbeat, small and soft and faint. You're fucking doomed.

When you leave the clinic, Rose and Kanaya look relieved, but Jane, Calliope, and Karkat look like they've just received the same news you did. Jane and Calliope are reading some of the "brochures" they've put together on pregnancy for your new species, and Karkat is texting frantically.

You make it back to your apartment to find Dove missing, Dave on the couch, texting frantically, and Hal pacing obsessively back and forth across the living room. You ignore them in lieu of shutting yourself in your room and freaking the fuck out for the second time today.

You're pregnant. The tiny, grainy blob you've got ultrasound pictures of is eventually going to become a fucking grub. A living, breathing being that you're entirely responsible for.

Well, not entirely.

You know exactly why Hal's pacing anxiously around the living room. Because of the incident in the bathroom earlier, he doesn’t know whether you’re expecting a grub or not. You're not going to confront him over it, though. You don't think you'd be able to, after all the shit you've gone through today.

-

====> Dirk: Examine yourself.

You're only eight and a half weeks along, but you’re showing- sort of. It's not enough that anyone would notice- hell, you didn't even notice until you got into the shower, but it's there. There's a small swell at the bottom of your stomach, heavy and hard. It's just big enough to cover with one hand, but it's _there._

That's your grub that you're feeling, you realize, and that thought makes you strangely giddy. That's your offspring, your grub, your and Hal's DNA combined into what will be eventually a living, breathing being. It shouldn't make you as happy as it does, as much as you’ve been freaking out for the past four weeks.

Even after you’ve left the shower and gotten dressed, you keep catching yourself unconsciously palming the little bump that your unborn grub makes. While you’re eating, while you’re drawing, while you’re heading up to the roof to go practice strife.

Hal catches you when you’re returning from the roof. You’re putting your sword away, and you’ve got one hand resting suspiciously on your lower abdomen, which you drop as soon as you hear him approach.

“Dirk,” he says, accusingly, blocking the door like he thinks you’re going to run away.

“Yeah?” you say, as nonchalantly as you can.

“Bro told me that you’re- and I quote- ‘knocked the fuck up’,” he hisses, voice dropping pitch.

“Yeah,” you say, resignedly, shoulders dropping.

“Fuck- fuck you,” he says, voice wavering, as if you’ve confirmed his worst suspicions. “I asked you a month ago- the day you went to the clinic, and you said no. I asked you two weeks later, when you knew for sure, and you said no.” His voice loses its accusing tone. “Dirk, this is a big fucking deal. What the hell are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, staring pointedly at the floor.

“What?” he asks.

“I don’t fucking know, okay!” you snap, looking up at him. “If the fact that I couldn’t even bring myself to tell you wasn’t enough of a goddamn indication- then, then-“ You break off, registering the look of terror on his face. “I just- fuck.”

“Fuck,” he agrees. “I’ll-I’ll see if I can figure something out, but- fuck, Dirk.”

Somehow, you’ve moved across the room without even registering it. Your face is buried in the crook of his neck, and, as little as you’d like to admit it, you’re crying.

====> Dirk: Collect yourself.

You have, well, sort of. You can’t get over the fact that Hal knows - _fuck_ -, but you’ve managed to calm yourself down, using the same mantra as a month ago, when you initially found out.

_You made it through fifteen years in a post-apocalypse hellscape. You made it through Sburb, and all the trials therein. You made it through your arrival in the new universe. You made it through being reincarnated as a fucking human/troll/cherub hybrid, for fuck's sake._

You just wish Hal would calm down that easily. It’s been three hours, and you can still hear him pacing anxiously about his room.

-

====> Dirk: Get dragged back to the med clinic.

It’s been almost a month since Hal found out about your current situation, and therefore, twelve weeks since the initial damning event. As such, you (and everyone else in the same situation) are back in the med clinic. You’re sitting next to Jane, who looks just as frazzled as you feel, and Hal, who insisted on coming with you.

Calliope and Roxy return to the waiting room, just in time for Jane to be called back. Roxy presses a kiss to Callie’s forehead, then leaves with Jane. Hal is still sitting beside you, practically vibrating with nerves. Dave and Karkat are, meanwhile, fervently discussing some shitty game, while several of the other trolls, beta and alpha, sit nearby in various states of disarray.

When it’s your turn to go back to the exam room, it’s almost a relief.

====> Dirk: Get examined, yet again.

You make Hal sit and wait outside, of course, while Porrim takes your height and your weight and gives a cursory glance toward the barely-visible bump your grub makes.

Then, you strip partially and lie down on the ultrasound table for the third time in twelve weeks. This time, however, you can’t help but notice that Porrim is frowning at the display and keeps taking screenshots and writing things down on the pad of paper beside her. Fuck.

Is there something wrong with you? Is there something wrong with your grub? Your stomach sinks. Fuck. What if your grub is dead? What if you’re miscarrying? _Fuck._

Porrim leaves the room, and comes back almost immediately with Dr. Lalonde, who doesn’t appear to be all that alarmed. She clicks around on the screen, scrawls some more notes, then finally, finally turns to you. She’s smiling. What the fuck is going on?

“Congratulations, Dirk,” she says. “You appear to be carrying this species’ second-ever set of twins.”

You exhale in relief, then her words set in and your stomach drops. Fuck. What the hell are you going to do with two whole grubs?

“Would you like pictures?” she asks.

“Yes ma’am,” you hear yourself say, despite the fact that you’re panicking internally. Your voice sounds shaky and unsteady, of course.

“Would you like me to let Hal and your bro know?” she asks.

“Yes ma’am,” you say again, shaky as ever.

“Alright,” she says. “You’re welcome to sit up now.”

You sit up and pull your hoodie back on as she leaves the room. You hear her speaking to Hal in the hallway, but you don’t pay attention to that. You’re distracted, mostly by the fact that you’re going to have two whole living, breathing grubs in six short months.

Two grubs. How the hell are you going to take care of two grubs? You’d had a (moderately sound) plan for just the one, but two? You’ve got no idea. It’s not like you can just move somewhere with enough room for both of them, and-

“Dirk!” your bro calls. “Dirk, is this true?”

====> Hal: Come up with a plan.

Your apartment is hella cramped already, and you’ve got no idea how you’re going to fit two whole grubs into this equation. Both Dave and Karkat are staying in Dave’s room, you, Dirk, and Dove in your own rooms, and your bro in the master bedroom. There’s an extra bedroom, but Dave and Karkat have already claimed it for their grub.

And, just like that, you have an idea.

Your room is slightly larger than everyone else’s’, excluding the master (you drew the longest straw). It wouldn’t be that hard to fit a nursery, even one intended for two grubs, in here. As for where you would go, well, Dave and Karkat are sharing a room, why can’t you and Dirk?

====> Dirk: Be relieved.

Thank fuck for Hal and his stupid overactive brain.

It took three hours for him to come up with this, but still. He’s willing to give up space in your already cramped apartment for your grubs. Both of your grubs. And if that means you have to share a room with him for the indiscriminate future, that’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make.

And because you’re the one carrying the grubs, you’re automatically exempt from all of the heavy lifting and hard work. Because grubs are grubs, and not human babies, his room’s going to need some serious adjustments.

====> Hal: Make adjustments.

Sharing a room with Dirk is weird, to say the least. You’d discovered half way through the arduous process of moving your stuff in that two beds weren’t going to fit, so for the immediate future, you’re sharing. Otherwise, you’ve got your own desk and dresser, on the side of the room furthest from the bathroom (never, ever get in the way of someone suffering morning sickness at all hours of the day).

You don’t regret it, though. This entire mess is still your fault, whether Dirk thinks so or not. It’s really the least you can do for him and ~~your~~ his grubs.

-

====> Dirk: Relax.

You are relaxing- well, as much as you can. Hal is clattering around in the grubs’ room, arranging and rearranging all the grub stuff he’s alchemized. You don’t care: the important stuff’s already out of the way and has been for nearly a month. Still, Hal’s neurotic enough that he can’t leave the nursery alone without adding or subtracting or rearranging something every few days.

You’re sitting in your computer chair, swiveling slightly because you can’t help yourself, and reading up on grub development. You’ve got most everything memorized already, of course, but it’s still nice to refresh yourself. You click to the next page, and- fuck, what was that?

It happens again, a small shift in your distended abdomen. Was-was that a kick? Holy fuck, you think it was. Your grub- one of your grubs just kicked. Holy _fuck_. You check the section on gestation again, and yeah, grubs start kicking at about 16-20 weeks. You’re at almost exactly seventeen. Holy shit. This is real. It’s really happening.

Your grub kicks again a couple hours later, when you’re getting into bed. It’s the same one as earlier, you think. It does worry you a little, that the second grub hasn’t started kicking, but it’s vastly overweighed by how giddy it makes you. Seriously.

The second grub makes its presence known two days later by headbutting your left kidney. Hal, thankfully, doesn’t see you wince when it happens. It happens again while the first grub is kicking up a storm later that day, but then you’re expecting it, and he doesn’t notice. It’s not like you want to keep him out of the loop, but he’s been throwing around terms like ectopic pregnancy and premature labor for the last week.

-

====> Hal: Panic.

You’re lying in bed with Dirk, reading, when he twitches, and you panic. You’ve been reading up on premature labor, and how first-time-moms are at a greater risk, and- oh god. Dirk twitches again, and you sit bolt upright. He’s barely at 20 weeks, and this early, neither of your grubs would have a chance.

“Hal, relax,” he says.

“But-“ you gasp.

“Relax,” he says. “That wasn’t a contraction.”

“Are-are you sure?” you ask. “I mean-“

“Yea, I’m sure,” he says. “That was grub #2 making itself known by headbutting my kidney.”

You exhale in relief, before a worse thought comes to mind. “What about grub #1?”

“Here,” he says, taking your hand and placing it on his distended stomach, slightly downwards and off-center. You’re about to ask what that was for, when you feel what you assume to be grub #1 kick.

“Holy fuck,” you exhale. The grub kicks again, in a slightly different spot. “Dirk-“

“Yeah,” he says.

You exhale again. Holy fuck. “How often?”

“Pretty much every day for the past three weeks,” he says. “Mostly at night.”

====> Hal: Discuss.

You’re sitting with Dirk in the kitchen, reading, when he brings up something you’ve been thinking about for a while: names. You’ve got more than a few ideas (and a word document squirreled away in the depths of your hard drive), but you doubt he’d want to hear them.

So, instead you just say “I don’t know, what were you thinking?”

He sighs. “I’ve got no idea either. I was hoping you could answer that question.”

“Well,” you say, trying not to let yourself get too hopeful. “I like Davis, and Rosemarie, and-“

“You’ve got a list, don’t you?” he asks.

Fuck Dirk, for knowing you better than you know yourself. “Want me to print it?”

“Knock yourself out,” he says.

====> Dirk: Review.

Jesus fuck, this is a lot of names. How long has Hal been thinking about this?

There are a couple of really good suggestions, and a lot of really bad ones. Some of them are fictional characters, which you cross out on sheer principle. You aren’t naming your grubs after anyone, especially anyone from 2001: A Space Odyssey. There are also a lot of ‘d’ and ‘r’ names, following in Strilonde tradition, and six-letter names, following in troll tradition. (they are grubs, after all.)

With occasional input from Hal and his cursed red pen, you end up narrowing down the list to eleven names; four masculine, four feminine, and three neutrois. Because the new universe came with a new species, gender is less genitalia and more identity defined by poorly delineated social characteristics and pronouns. Quite honestly, you’re fine with whatever your grubs decide to be.

-

====> Dirk: Get examined, again.

This time, you let Hal sit in on your ultrasound. He’s quiet and respectful, because you’d told him you’d restrict his access to the grubs if he wasn’t, except for when one of the grubs kicks while the ultrasound wand is focused on it. You’re starting to feel them less and less, because their eggshells are thickening and solidifying.  

You leave the med clinic with Hal in tow and yet another informational packet on grubs. It’s been six entire months since the initial damning incident, and according to Hal, time has flown. You disagree, mostly since you’ve thrown up almost every morning for the past seventeen weeks. You’ve also been subject to the ultrasound wand four times, and Dr. Lalonde’s scrutiny twice.

You are, to put it frankly, really fucking ready for this to be over. You’ve still got sixteen weeks, but you’re so goddamn done. Everything is swollen and sore, especially your feet, and when you aren’t craving something asinine and bizarre, you’re so nauseous you can’t stand the sound of running water. Quite simply, it sucks, and you’re so, so very ready to be done.

-

====> Hal: Worry.

Well, it’s not like you’re concerned or anything, but Dirk’s near-constant nausea is concerning. From what you’ve read, morning sickness is supposed to be non-existent after the second trimester, and that ended almost six weeks ago. You know Dirk himself would just brush you off with a ‘Hal, I’m thirty weeks along, I’m going to know if something’s wrong. Stop bothering me,’ so you decide to pester Jane instead.

Jane tells you that it’s perfectly normal for morning sickness to last longer than usual, even up until delivery, especially for first-time mothers and full omegas. She even mentions that Callie, who’s also a full omega, didn’t stop having morning sickness until a few weeks ago, and that it’s nothing to worry about. In fact, she says, it may even hint toward your grubs being healthier than average.

You know you should be relieved, and you are, sort of, but you’re still worried. What if it’s different because Dirk’s a male omega? What if it’s different because there are two grubs instead of one?

Dirk notices you fretting from across the room, and scoffs. “Hal, at this point, I’d definitely know if something were wrong. Calm down.”

-

====> Hal: Calm down.

It takes time, but you stop worrying about Dirk’s continued morning sickness. Especially because it started tapering off shortly after your conversation with Jane, and now, two weeks later, it’s almost completely gone.

-

====> Dirk: Freak out.

You shouldn’t be freaking out. The occasional premature contraction, especially when you’re 35, almost 36 weeks along, shouldn’t be a concern. Except for the fact that it happened again, almost 30 minutes later.

Hal and his obsessive, neurotic brain are out for the day, having an ‘alpha picnic’ with Roxy and Dave. You should be grateful for that, especially because he’d immediately drag you out to the med clinic and start timing your contractions (which you totally haven’t been doing).

27 minutes after the second contraction, you have a third. Fuck. The fourth happens 25 minutes later. _Fuck._ You have a really, really bad feeling that you might be going into labor. A fifth contraction, 22 minutes later, and a sixth, 20 minutes after that, almost entirely confirm your suspicions.

The following eight contractions only reaffirm that fact. Now, they’re only twelve minutes apart, and you’re beginning to get worried. You need to get the med clinic, pronto, but it’s too far to walk while you’re actively in labor, and you’re the only one in the apartment right now. Fuck. You text Hal that hey, maybe he could head back a little early, you’re having contractions and you’re not entirely sure that your grubs won’t arrive today.

He doesn’t reply. You text him six more times, over the next half hour, and he doesn’t reply. Fuck. You text Dave, as a last resort, and he doesn’t reply, either. _Fuck._ At this point, your contractions are barely five minutes apart, and your water is in the process of breaking. You text Jane and tell her that your water just broke, you’ve got no way of getting to the med clinic, and Hal’s not answering his fucking phone. She tells you not to panic, stay where you are, and she’s sending Porrim to come get you.

By the time you make it to the med clinic, your contractions are only two minutes apart, and holy fuck they hurt. It only gets worse, as you’re finally cleared to push. Jane arrives, somewhere in the painful blur, and keeps telling you you’re almost there, even though it doesn’t feel like it. It fucking hurts, god damn it, and you hate Hal, you hate yourself, you hate whoever decided poking holes in free condoms was a good idea, just for making you go through this.

Finally, finally, the pain subsides, and you collapse back onto whatever the hell you’re lying on. Dr. Lalonde passes you the first of your eggs, freshly weighed and wiped free of goop, and you take back everything you said about this being not worth it, holy fuck, then she passes you the second one and you think you’re going to cry. Jesus Fucking Christ, you made these, and they’re perfect, not lopsided or lumpy or discolored.

Porrim is explaining to you how long they’ll take to hatch (anywhere from 3 hours to three days) and how you’ll probably still be here when they do, when Hal runs into whatever room you’re in, looking anxious and upset. Then, he sees you, exhausted, delirious, and probably sporting tear tracks on your face, and your two eggs, and his face melts.

“Holy fuck, Dirk,” he says. “Dirk, they’re perfect, oh my god.”

He sits down in the chair next to you, and you, recounting all the threats you’ve made in the past, pass him one to hold. He takes it gingerly, like he’s afraid he’ll break it if he pets it too hard and strokes the shell gently.

You’re not sure how long you coo over your eggs, but you do fall asleep eventually, and so does Hal. While you sleep, your poor abused nook recovers a little, and someone moves your eggs to a box right next to your bed.

When you wake up, it’s to the sound of an eggshell cracking. You sit up, and gently watch as the larger of the two eggs shakes, and cracks again. You elbow Hal, who’s still asleep, and he jolts awake. The two of you gently coax the first of your grubs, a bronzeblood with Hal’s horns, out of its egg. It doesn’t protest when you pick it up, and gently wipe the egg goop and bits of shell off of its smooth, soft carapace.

It chirps at Hal when he strokes it gently, and purrs when you skritch it between the horns. There was one point in your life when you called grubs ‘demon maggots from the tar pits of hell,’ but right now, you don’t know why you ever would. Your grub is perfect. Its carapace is smooth, soft, and just the slightest bit fuzzy, and it’s warm in your arms. It’s got perfect little bronze button eyes, and a pair of tiny fangs that protrude from its tiny pout. It has Hal’s horns, short and pointed, but without vicious barbs on the tips, and shock-white hair.

Porrim comes in when she hears you cooing at it and insists on giving it at least a basic examination. She takes it from the room for a few minutes, during which the second, smaller egg starts to hatch. You coax the second grub just like you did the first one, and it hatches in about the same time. You wipe it off and clean the goo out of its eyes, then hold it just the same. It’s quieter than its sibling, but it still chirps and chirrs and chitters when you pet it.

This grub is smaller, but only slightly. It’s a rustblood, with short, pointed, and slightly curved horns like yours, but with wicked sharp barbs on both tips. It’s got wonderful little rust red button eyes, and much sharper fangs than its sibling. Its hair is longer, long enough that you’re worried about permanent damage from the egg goop, but just as bright white. It’s perfect, just as much as its sibling is.

Porrim returns with the older grub, and pronounces it perfectly healthy, before leaving with its younger sibling. Kanaya comes in a few seconds later and starts asking technical questions about whether you’re prepared to take care of two grubs (yes), whether you want Hal to be listed as the father (yes), and whether you’d like to feed them while you’re here (again, yes). Then Porrim comes back with the second grub, and you get to hold them both for a second before Dr. Lalonde comes in.

“Congratulations,” she says. “Do either of you have names in mind for your daughters?”

You look at Hal. Hal looks at you. “Yes ma’am.”

You pass your older daughter to Hal, a silent affirmation of the promise that you’d made earlier, that he gets to name one of them. You know exactly what you’re going to name your younger daughter.

Kiora and Diana come home with you three hours later, safely wrapped in blankets and tucked into a grub carrier. When you introduce them to their nursery for the first time, Diana goes right for the dishes of cut-up fruit that you had Hal set up for them, while Kiora decides to explore first. While you’re focused on getting the carrier put away, she manages to get herself entangled in one of the blankets Hal left out.

And although Kiora is the younger and smaller, she sure wails like a much larger grub. You jump and walk over to untangle her immediately. She stops wailing as soon as you set her back down, then skitters over to the food dish, content with her exploration. Diana, after finishing her fruit, finds one of the grub nests and goes right to sleep, as does Kiora a few minutes later. You don’t blame them. It’s been an exhausting day for all of you.

**Author's Note:**

> forgive me father, for i have sinned, and so have you if you've made it this far
> 
> also, if you'd like more reprehensible fanfiction, i take requests at kevinbaconsleftfoot.tumblr


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